A Different Kind of Glory
by Star4
Summary: They are her battlegrounds, these internal struggles in the night, in her mind, and she fights on them alone. Post ROTK. Rated M just to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** A Different Kind Of Glory

**Category:** Angst

**Rating:** M for dark themes and suggestion of rape.

**Spoilers:** The Lord of the Rings Trilogy

**Summary:** They are her battlegrounds, these internal struggles in the night, in her mind, and she fights on them alone.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters created and owned by J.R.R. Tolkien. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Several lines come from various things that I have read before (novels, other fanfictions, etc.) and I just couldn't keep them straight. So if you see a line in here that looks like something original that you wrote, feel flattered that I wanted to use it and I apologize for the (semi) plagiarism. This story is extremely loosely based on "Everybody's Fool" and "Farther Away," both by Evanescence.

**Author Notes**: Aha! Finally I have posted something. This was just a little ficlet that has been kicking me in the head for a while. May be a one shot. May turn into something more, depending on what the reaction is. It's basically self-explanatory and needs no further introduction. So please, read and review.

Enjoy!

A Different Kind of Glory 

_"And that's when she put her book down. And looked at me. And said it: 'Life isn't fair, Bill. We tell our children that it is, but it's a terrible thing to do. It's not only a lie; it's a cruel lie. Life is not fair, and it never has been, and it's never going to be.'"_

_William Goldman, "The Princess Bride"_

The room could never have been called lovely. There is a massive bed in the middle of the chamber and a high backed armchair faces a large fireplace but the quilted cover is without embellishments and the stone floor is bare and rough to cold feet. Two skillfully woven tapestries are the only decoration adorning the walls. They hang on either side of a window that faces the rolling plains outside, white with the winter snow but now silver in twilight. It is a room that one can see was created with an austere taste but not without love. This is her haven and she rarely leaves it nowadays. There is pragmatism within the sparse furnishings and memories seem to cling to the cherry wood of the simple coffee table, echoing from the vaulted ceilings.

But the dimmed room is quiet now.

A shaft of moonlight filters into the chamber to reveal a tall, willowy woman, standing at the window. Though her skin is alabaster white, darkness seems to cling to her. Sadness clouds her ice blue eyes. A silver gown shrouds her slender figure and a cobweb like veil glitters against her pale hair.

Once there dwelt a girl who dreamed of a life of adventure and true love, a girl who dreamed of meeting her fair prince and galloping away with him on his white horse. Later, after a visit to Dol Amroth, the white horse became white sails. But the girl, grown and world-weary now, is a shadow of her former self.

She has not long left in this realm, she knows. There is a sense of fragility about her that has never been there before, a feeling that at a single touch, she may shatter into a thousand pieces, shards too sharp to put back together.

She has sacrificed too much of herself in an attempt to protect her people, to save her uncle.

She gazes across the fields and whispers to the land of her birth the names of those that are beyond her reach, as she has every night for the past few years, in every language that she can recall. Even though she sees how much pain it causes her brother, her liege lord, and (hardest of all to bear) her husband who is here with her (who _loves _her) but who does not hold her heart. Even though she knows that it's useless, that her loved ones will not return to her from beyond the grave…still she waits and she watches for white sails and the hope that they will bring, the strength that they may feed to her brittle soul.

But the hope has at last faded. So, in the darkness of the room she wearily begins to accept that there will be no white sails and no love but only waiting. It is her fate and now there can be nothing left for her to fear.

A taunt lingers at the edge of her mind, a whisper of longing...

She pushes the thought away. Long ago, she threw away her honour as a woman. She sacrificed her chances at happily ever after for just enough. She did not then believe that she deserved to be happy; she still does not and, in a way, amidst the pain, she finds a perverse pleasure in standing at the glass. Perhaps, she thinks, if it hurts enough, she will begin to atone for the horrific transgressions that she has committed in the name of others.

But sometimes, sometimes the emptiness, the numbness, within her feels as though it may swallow her alive and despair creeps over her heart.

Suddenly she straightens her bowed head and holds it up proudly. She reminds herself that she is not a weak maiden, bleating helplessly for a savior. She is proud, a daughter and sister of kings, a princess in her own right. She led her people out of the darkness and into the light; she defeated the demon that no man could to become the Lady of the Shield Arm (1). Even in the blackest days in Rohan, after Éomer was banished and Theodred was dead, she did not shy from shame or pain or death; she never abandoned her responsibility, no matter how much suffering she had had to endure. And there had been so much suffering and so much grief.

Later now, she can look back on those bleak, endless days and find herself only darkly amused at the naiveté of the men in her life, in their stubborn insistence on believing her to be helpless and incapable when, in reality, she had perhaps saved them all, or at least stalled the wrath of a powerful enemy. But nothing about the situation had seemed amusing at the time. She remembers feeling nothing but the unadulterated terror of a child as her uncle's mind deteriorated and he changed from the assured noble king of her youth into a feeble old man and she had had to fend for herself. However, pragmatism and coldness soon supplanted what little innocence she had possessed.

Out of necessity, she consciously built the wall around her heart, piece by piece, and it became her armor. There could be no crack in the stones, no gap in the mortar. She let go of her losses and became strong again; she swore to do anything to protect her people. For them, she had decided to walk, eyes wide open, down the road to hell.

She still wakes in the middle of the night, fist stuffed in her mouth to keep herself from screaming at the memories that assault her.

She can still taste the bitter taste of the serpent's mouth on her own; sometimes she still wakes in the middle of the night, shuddering from the feel of his greedy hands roaming over her body, tearing at her clothes. She still remembers his hot breath by her face and the way that she silently accepted his advances to save her brother from his own hotheaded temper.

Éomer will never appreciate the sacrifices that she has made for him. She knows that he will not feel understanding but horror and disgust. Even now, in his blissful ignorance, Éomer likes to pretend that she is happy in her marriage; he pretends that she is as much in love with her husband as Éomer is with his beloved. He still thinks of her as the innocent girl who begged to be allowed to tag along with him to gallop recklessly across the plains of Rohan.

But that girl has been dead for a long time, longer than Éomer can ever know. He has been gone for too long to know it, to see her dark side.

As for her husband…he sees her as he wishes her to be: pure and beautiful, with a soul as strong as mithril.

But then, Faramir and Éomer have always seen the world in black and white. Good and evil. Right and wrong. Separate and distinct and never the twain shall meet.

She possesses no such illusions. As a woman, she is privy to the other side of the glory that men exalt in. She deals in smoke and mirrors and subtlety. She knows intimately the messiness of the grey areas that no one ever speaks of.

They are her battlegrounds, these internal struggles in the night, in her mind, and she fights on them alone.

For the men in her life are too afraid to stand with her. At the briefest flicker of a shadow in her eyes, they stay only long enough to fulfill some sort of obligation before rushing away. And she sees the look of relief on their faces as they go.

"Give her time," they murmur to one another, exchanging knowing glances. "This melancholy is only womanly vapors. It will pass in time."

And so she faces the darkness alone.

They who place such value on courage, they who speak so poetically of defending their respective kingdoms from barbaric foreigners…they aren't brave enough to stay with her when the shadows close in.

She knows that this grievance is selfish. Some things are more important than the concepts of good and evil, such as the good of the people, no matter the cost to the individual.

But sometimes she allows herself to be selfish and she allows herself to admit it, if only to herself.

She only wants someone to stay. For once. To the bitter, bitter end. She wants someone to take her hand, not to tell her that it will all turn out right in the end (because who can promise that?), but to offer silent support and companionship.

She wants someone to go all the way, go with her all the way to the bottom and help her come out in some safe place on the other side. (2)

When she draws in another deep breath, it hitches in her throat. But she does not cry.

She does not shed a tear at all, but only gasps with small, shuddering breaths, as people do when they are truly alone.

A/N:

1. I did not make this up. In the book, Éowyn was granted the title "Lady of the Shield-arm" after the Battle in recognition of her triumph over the Witch-king.

2. This line comes from the fabulous novel by Morgan Llywelyn, "Lion of Ireland."

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	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** A Different Kind Of Glory

**Category:** Angst

**Rating:** M for dark themes and suggestion of rape.

**Spoilers:** The Lord of the Rings Trilogy

**Summary:** She thinks of him as a child whose innocence she must protect…but he knows far more than she gives him credit for.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters created and owned by J.R.R. Tolkien. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Several lines come from various things that I have read before (novels, other fanfictions, etc.) and I just couldn't keep them straight. So if you see a line in here that looks like something original that you wrote, feel flattered that I wanted to use it and I apologize for the (semi) plagiarism. This story is extremely loosely based on "Thoughtless," by Evanescence.

**Author Notes**: Another little addition to the DKG universe. Éowyn doesn't know her husband as well as she thinks she does…a little ditty from Faramir's perspective.

Enjoy!

**A Different Kind of Glory**

_"'I've been saying it so long to you, you just wouldn't listen. Every time you said, "'Farm Boy, do this," you thought I was answering, "As you wish," but that's only because you were hearing wrong. "I love you" was what it was, but you never heard"'_

_William Goldman, "The Princess Bride"_

Just until the spring comes.

It becomes a kind of mantra within the walls of Ithilien, a grasping for blind hope in the dark days of winter. The cooks speak it fervently as they exchange glances over their pots. The maids whisper it from behind their hands and demurely averted eyes. The soldiers murmur it in hushed voices in the barracks, on the practice field…in comforting voices to their Captain.

He longs to cling to that mantra, to that blind hope…but he fears the winter, those never-ending days of death and darkness. He'd thought that he'd escaped darkness when the days of the war ended, when he beheld his fair White Lady and tumbled without preamble into love.

He's since learned that love most certainly does _not_ conquer all. At least it hadn't for him. When he sees the shadow pass over her face, sorrow cuts through him, as sharp as any Morgul blade.

It used to wound him that he could not shine a light for her to break the shadow. That she would reject the light so completely once hurt his very soul.

He remembers their wedding night. He remembers the queasy blend of nervousness and excitement in his stomach. He'd loved her so completely then, so blindly that he didn't even heed that Éowyn became more irritable with the servants as the day wore on. Eager to bind with his love, he'd just thought that she was as impatient as he.

Entering the wedding chambers, he remembers seeing her form, touched by the candlelight and glowing. Her back had been to him and he was fascinated with the curve of her neck. He hadn't been able to resist reaching over to trace her shoulder and lean in to kiss her neck, softly, tenderly.

She shuddered as though he'd plunged a knife into her back.

Still, he thought that he'd just startled his bride, and went to bury his hands in the fall of her long, flaxen hair, as he'd longed to do since the first time he'd seen it flying in the wind. He tugged her closer and tried to kiss her, his new wife that he was so very desperately in love with.

She screamed, a wild, terrified keening sound that made him release her in horror, skin prickling.

He tried comforting her; in his confusion and his desire to stop her weeping, he went to embrace her, but she only pushed him away again, still wailing.

They have been married for three years now and, though she no longer shudders outwardly at his touch, even the most fleeting of kisses makes her shrink within herself. It takes all of her strength to simply remain still and he can almost see her building the walls around her, stone by stone, as she retreats into the safe house that her mind has created.

He knows that it isn't that she doesn't love him—far from it. She loves him as completely as she is capable to. But the part of her that is capable of loving is so fragile, so minute, that she can find no joy in his embrace, only force herself to tolerate it.

Éowyn thinks him naïve, he knows. She thinks of him as a child whose innocence she must protect and so she allows him to pretend that the darkness of the Nazgul King still encroaches on her dreams. But he knows far more than she gives him credit for.

Éomer tells tales of his sister's childhood, when she was carefree and happily gave her love to any stranger that smiled kindly at her. He thinks longingly of that child, so wild, so pure. He likes to pretend that, if he smiles just right, she might offer him her entire heart, untouched and whole.

But something has happened to tear that piece from her, to rip at her heart and her soul, until nothing, not even the most skilled of Elvish magics, can stitch her back together. He has his suspicions of what that something is; Éomer does not want to say it or even think it. Of all of the possibilities for the cause of Éowyn's despair, Éomer refuses to even consider the idea that Éowyn would lower herself to be so violated.

Because even her husband, who at first sight thought of her as a delicate flower, doubts that anyone could take something from Éowyn that she did not deliberately choose to give.

He knows that, contrary to what Éomer might say (or even believe), the news of the death of Wormtongue brings Éowyn no comfort, no satisfied sense of justice, but only a sense of enraged helplessness.

It should have been her knife that plunged into his back, her nails that tore the skin from his face. It should have been her to drink the heady, bloody desperation of that triumph.

She isn't mad, he knows, but scarily lucid. Her thinking is sharper than that of his advisors and, if they were any sort if partners in their marriage at all, he would go to her for advice on the frustrating issues in Ithilien.

But he doesn't know how to help her, how to save her. He goes to see her every morning and stands in awkward silence and even more awkward small talk. And in the silence, he agonizes over whether or not it is safe to touch her, whether or not she will accept his touch tolerantly (on a good day), or whether she will shrink in that internal way that she does.

More days are bad than are good.

After a few tense minutes, he makes some excuse and hurries away and, as he goes, he can see the contempt and angry accusations in her eyes as they follow him, before they blank in that carefully veiled expression that characterizes the White Lady.

Sometimes he thinks that it would be better for both parties if he set her aside, released her from being his wife. But that would be an insult to Éowyn and to her family and, as much as he aches for her and for himself, he cannot risk offending the Rohirrim, and Éomer would be infuriated if he knew that his brother-in-law even entertained thoughts of leaving Éowyn.

So after three years of marriage, the bond remains unconsummated. After three years of marriage, he still does not know his wife; he does not recognize the feel of her soul against his, as all true bonds may, as his parents used to be able to.

She will not let him love her and, though all of Ithilien hope that, with the coming of spring, the feeling of renewal may revive the love of their Lord and Lady, winter is less than half over and Éowyn is fading in the same way that his own mother did, long ago.

He wonders sometimes, if Éowyn now offered up her whole heart in her hands…would he take it? Could he?

Oh, he still loves her. But he loves her in that tired, sinking way, as if he has simply grown used to loving her and having his love repulsed and spat on.

It has ceased to affect him, her rejection. He supposes that he has gradually come to accept it, as he gradually came to accept his father's rejection.

They say that his father realized the depth of his love for his son as he saw him lying on the stretcher, burning from inside.

He sometimes wonders if Éowyn will come to the same realization if he has some other near death experience.

Then he wonders if he would even care if she did.

3


End file.
